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"Money motivates a lot of people to do things they normally wouldn't. I'm not saying she meant-"
“-Money never motivated my mother. She ran away from a wealthy East Coast family in the late sixties. Mother wanted to live in Haight-Ashbury, free love and all that. She ended up in the commune with an old boyfriend who drank peyote tea and did a lot of woodworking. An old Pueblo woman taught her how to make pottery, so she stayed and started working in clay before getting into bronze. Calliope's real name was Martha Jane Weiner and her father was a real estate broker on Long Island. She had a trust fund and didn't need money. And I’m the same way.”
Abigail nodded thoughtfully. “Well, only Bart knows the truth. Or maybe he doesn't. Maybe he saw what he thought was guilt or heard something he thought was an argument. Simeon could have tripped."
"Not if he was in a wheelchair."
Abigail stared out at the night. She shifted and curved her arms around her knees, her light blue toenail polish incongruent with the serious woman he encountered in the halls of the school. The fire light softened the angles of her face, making her green eyes glow. "Maybe you'll never know, but that doesn't mean you can't find your father."
Leif shrugged. "I've gone my whole life not knowing so I'll survive if I don't find him. Still, something inside me feels restless, like I need to know the truth. Maybe knowing what happened to my mother here would- "
He clamped down on his thoughts. How could he say it would give him a different life? Knowing his father could give him grounding, an idea of why he was on this planet. Maybe discovering how love had ended so badly could help him set his own love life to rights. Leif wanted to stick somewhere ..someday. "I don't know. I wonder if it's a bad idea. Maybe knowing about me would make his life worse. Maybe it would make mine worse."
A few more seconds ticked by. ''And you don't have a clue as to who he is?"
''The only possible clue is a tattoo my mom had. She had a story for every tattoo on her body, but there was a small tattoo of a bird between her thumb and index finger she'd never speak of. Often I'd catch her tracing the outline, her eyes clouded. I always thought the bird reminded her of my father. But I could be wrong."
"Good thing she didn't say he lived in Dallas or Houston. That would be much harder," Abigail said with a small smile. "So I'm guessing that's why you wanted the book from Laurel Woods... and maybe that's the reason you wanted to go out with me?"
“No,” Leif said, seeing very plainly that Abigail thought this was about his mining for information. "Sure, I thought visiting Laurel Woods might give me a sense of where my mother lived and loved, but I don't think there's anything left from her time there."
"There might be. Bart had tons of junk packed away into huge storage containers in the cabins. When we bought the place, he washed his hands of the stuff. I opened a few boxes and it's mostly things like hot plates, old dishes, and art supplies. I haven't gone through the rest of them because I haven't had time. My plan was to renovate the cabins as guest houses, expanding the inn's business. You're welcome to go through the stuff if you think it would help, but your best bet is to talk to some of the folks who were around then."
"That's the plan."
"Well, you've been here for six months. What have you been doing?"
"Uh, moving in, teaching, giving the town time to trust me a little before giving up secrets."
"You think there are secrets?" Abigail's forehead did that little wrinkle thing again.
"There are always secrets in small Southern towns."
Abigail laughed. "You've seen too many movies. We're no different than any other people in any other city."
"You're joking, right?" Leif said, lifting the cheese tray so he could move closer to Abigail. She sucked in her breath a little, her hands pressing against her jeans.
"So we're a little closed off and even backward.’’
“That's not what I meant. This a cool little town with some interesting characters, but everyone has secrets. Human nature."
"I guess," she said, jumping a bit when he lifted her hand.
"And, Abigail."
Her gaze rose to his. "Huh?"
"You have nothing to do with searching for my father. You're a delicious side benefit." He lowered his lips to skim across the sensitive flesh of her wrist.
"Why do you do that?" she asked.
"What? Kiss your hand?"
"Yeah, like you stepped out of the nineteenth century. Do you carry a handkerchief, too?"
Leif tugged her to him. She lost her balance and toppled into his lap.
"I don't carry one, but I do like the turn of your wrist," he said, running a finger over the delicate skin. She shivered, which shot satisfaction into his belly. "So very elegant."
